“Hey, it’s the least I could do. It’s my fault it happened in the first place. I never anticipated that.”
“Me either. I’ve never encountered anything like that demon. I’m afraid to even consider why someone would need to call up something that powerful.”
“You and me both.” I sink onto the edge of her bed.
“Are you heading back tonight?”
I shake my head. “Not if I can crash here.”
“Of course. I enjoyed having you … honestly. It’s nice to see some parts of my past still have a place in my life.”
“I know that feeling well. When I came back, it was a culture shock, and everything kept changing every time I got halfway used to things. It’s been one hell of a year.”
“You’re surviving it better than you think. People are talking about the powerhouse you and Cristobal will be once everything is official. The witches are chattering and looking toward the Esçhete family once more to see what moves they’ll make. It’s a good time to be you, my friend. Enjoy it.”
“I never wanted this.”
“And yet, you’re meant to have it. No one else in our generation holds a candle to you. Felicite is talented and sweet, but a leader? Not so much. You did well placing her in the council spot. She’s a nurturer full of wisdom, and the ability to soak up knowledge like a sponge. She’ll also prevent them from crying favoritism and monopolizing.”
“I thought so. I don’t want people to think this was a strategic move. Bond mates aren’t something that can be faked.”
“There will always be haters and doubters. It’s not for you to worry about the opinions of peasants.”
I see an opportunity to learn, and I’m going to take it.
Chapter Eight
I should have anticipated retaliation. It knows we’re seeking it now. Striking out and kicking its agenda into high gear is a logical step. I try to talk myself out of guilt as I fly down the highway, headed back toward Cypress. The ‘notice me not’ glamour is helping me chop the two-and-a-half-hour drive in half. The longer it takes me to get to the murder scene, the muddier the evidence becomes. It already took them three days to find the body. Literally. The corpse in the conservatory is headless. What stars and planets have to do with it is beyond me. I’m coming to think of them as ritualistic killings.
Every case has been bizarre in its own way, and other than the fact that they make no sense and have no evidence left behind, there’s no one thing that binds them together. Though, I’m starting to think every incident is more outlandish than the next. We went from stealing dead bodies to removing hearts and now heads. What’s next? And why in the hell would a demon need body parts? It has to be someone with a vendetta or a mission, but why and what? These cases deliver more questions than answers, and with the body count piling up, that’s a severe problem.
Short of the Frankenstein theory, everyone is stumped. Bad analogy. A Golam is created from clay, not actual pieces, and a hand of glory only requires a hand of a murderer. What the hell would anyone need a head for? Not even a part of the brain, but an entire flesh covered skull. Can one feed a demon like they do a dog? As far as I know, they hunger for souls and chaos, not actual flesh. Is this some new breed of demon someone unearthed? Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like we have enough things to worry about.
I’m the furthest thing from professional wear in oversized sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Cristobal’s irritation and anger burn a bright red through our bend. He has slow burn anger, and it’s been brewing overnight. When I got the call for the case this morning, it tipped him over the edge. He doesn’t like letting issues lie. I swear I can feel the heat the closer I get to the city. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, despite the air conditioning. This puts a whole new spin on the phrase hot seat.
Just when I think I’m getting used to the bond, a new quirk is uncovered. I understand why he is unsettled. Paranoia and plots come with any position of power. But I refuse to have bodyguards every place I go. Life is unscripted, and no amount of planning will keep me safe twenty-four hours a day. Not that I’d entertain the constant sentry.
Shifting into another lane, I kick the speedometer up a notch. The engine purrs, and I enjoy the perks of the upgrade. The black BMW is leaps ahead of the Toyota Corolla stick shift I’d been babying since I was nineteen. I glance down at the navigation center. Twenty-minutes.
An intense urge to switch into the far right lane slams into me. I obey. A loud pop makes me jump. I watch in horror as a fourteen-wheeler loses its rear tire. The mass of black rubber unravels and the car directly behind it veers to the right, directly into the car that would’ve been mine had I not moved. The white Honda plows head-on into the wall, only to be T-boned a second later. The hood flies up, and smoke begins to roll out. My heart beats erratically as I move into the emergency lane and grip the steering wheel tightly. Coincidence or pot shot at my life?
“Are you okay?” Cristobal’s voice chimes in my head.
“Fine, just saw a nasty accident on the highway.”
I keep my suspicions to myself. Accidents happen frequently, and I’m still spooked as hell by what I saw last night. Who wouldn’t be? Calm, I rejoin the flow of traffic, hyperaware of my surroundings. I pull into the parking lot next to the familiar aquamarine Studebaker. Fel and Sacha step out of the car, and I feel like I can breathe.
Sacha raises my black duffle bag. “You owe us a story young lady,” she crows.
“I do.”
“No more running off to do dangerous things solo, please. There are three of us at W.F.H, you know?” Fel adds.
“I know. This was supposed to be an info run. I never expected anything else.”
“Afterward we want all the details. Right now, this case deserves our full attention.”
“Have you guys been inside?” I ask.